CHAPTER LIII.
JANE ZELD'S SECRET.
Sanselme rushed from the Maison Vollard. He seemed half wild with griefand rage. Where was he going? He knew not. Jane had gone without a wordof farewell, and this man, whom we have seen unmoved amid all thehorrors of Toulon, now wept as he ran. Whom should he ask? Two policemenpassed, and, great as was Sanselme's terror of the police, he went up tothem at once. Having by this time recovered his composure, he questionedthem calmly. He was waiting for a lady, he was her intendant. As she wasa foreigner, he was afraid she had gone astray.
One of the men replied, in a surly tone:
"If the lady has servants, how is it that she is out alone and on foot?"
To this natural remark Sanselme had no reply ready. He had been guiltyof a great folly. He realized this now, and felt sure that he would bewatched. Jane had no acquaintances in Paris. She had been out but twice,once to the charitable fete, when she sang and met with such success,and the second time was that same night.
Sanselme asked if Jane's mind could be affected. Could insanity come onthus suddenly? There was a secret in Jane's life, and he himself hadseen her only a few hours before overcome with grief.
Sanselme went up and down the Champs Elysees for an hour. Suddenly heremembered that the Seine was not far off. Why had he not thought ofthis before? He hastened to the river side, but saw nothing to confirmhis suspicions.
We will now disclose the secret tie between this man and Jane Zeld.Fifteen years before, the convict Sanselme had witnessed a terriblescene in a cottage at Beausset, a village between Toulon and Marseilles.A son had killed his mother, and then departed, carrying with him alarge sum of money. Bad as was Sanselme, he shuddered at this terriblecrime. He had aided in Benedetto's escape with the hope of receivingpart of the money, but he repulsed the blood-stained hand that offeredit.
"Be off with you or I will kill you!" he cried, and Benedetto fled. Ourreaders will remember how he was finally thrown up by the sea on theisland of Monte-Cristo.
Sanselme remained alone with the corpse. The sun rose, and finally a raycrept over the face of the dead woman. Sanselme started. Perhaps she isnot dead after all. He stooped and lifted her from the floor. Should hecall for assistance? To do so was to deliver himself up as an escapedconvict. And this was not all. He would be suspected of the murder. Hewould be led not to the galleys but to the scaffold.
"It would be useless for me to make any denial."
Still his humanity was large enough to induce him to run the risk, andhe would probably have called for assistance had he not at that momentheard the sound of wheels. It was the priest returning home. Sanselmebreathed a sigh of relief. Now he would have the aid he required. Hewould wait until the priest came up. The outer door stood wide open. Itwas through this door that Benedetto had fled. Sanselme heard the priestutter an exclamation of surprise, and then he went to his servant'sdoor, and knowing her deafness knocked and called loudly to her toawake. This was Sanselme's salvation. He leaned from the window andcaught a branch from the tree by which Benedetto had clambered to theupper room. This done, it was easy for Sanselme then to drop to theground. He ran around the house instantly. He was saved. He hastilydecided that Benedetto had taken the shortest road to the sea, and thathe himself would try to get out of France by the eastern frontier.
We will not dwell on all he endured. But a month later, Sanselme,completely changed in appearance, entered Switzerland, going thence toGermany. Intelligent and active, he had no difficulty in obtainingemployment. And Benedetto's crime seemed to have had a marvelous effectupon him. He seemed resolved upon repentance. For ten years, utilizinghis acquaintance with foreign languages, Maslenes--he had taken thisname--lived quietly in Munich. Not the smallest indiscretion on his partattracted the attention of the police. He was almost happy with thesechildren about him, his pupils; but he was alone in his so-called home,and all at once a great longing came over him to see France once more.He was well aware that it would be a great imprudence on his part toreturn to his native land; he might be recognized, or some chance mightreveal his past.
Nevertheless, he went. Ten years had elapsed since he crossed thefrontier. He went first to Lyons, not daring to attempt Paris, althoughhe chose a large city, believing that there he would incur less risk ofbeing recognized. He had saved some money, and thought he could teachagain. He had not been six months in Lyons before he was known as thegood Monsieur Maslenes, and was liked by every one. He led the mostregular life that could be imagined, and no one would have suspectedthat this stout, placid-looking person could be an escaped convict. Hefully intended to live and die thus in obscurity, and really enjoyed thetorpor of this existence. In the evening he took long walks, and frommotives of prudence went out but little by daylight. Alone in thedarkness, he often felt intense remorse, and remorse is not a pleasingcompanion.
One winter's night--the snow had been falling all day--Sanselme stayedout later than usual. The cold was sharp and there was no moon. Suddenlyhe heard an angry discussion across the street. Coarse voices and then awoman's tone of appeal. Sanselme did not linger, he had made it a rulenever to interfere in quarrels. He feared any complication which shouldcompromise him. But as he hurried on, he heard a wild cry for help.
"Oh! leave my child!" the woman cried. "Help! Help!"
Sanselme forgot all his prudence and ran in the direction of the cries.He found a woman struggling with three drunken men, trying to tear fromthem a young girl about thirteen, simply dressed. The girl wasstruggling, but oddly enough she did not utter a sound.
"Don't put on these airs, Zelda," said one of the ruffians, "let thelittle girl have a fling too. You have had yours."
In her struggle the girl dropped a box she carried. Tulles and laceswere scattered over the ground. She saw Sanselme, and then for the firsttime she screamed for help. Then with one blow Sanselme felled the manwho held the girl. He fell stunned to the ground. The child was free,and the two remaining scoundrels turned their attention to the defender.They were stout, strong fellows, with well-developed muscles, but theywere no match for Sanselme. He hurled one against the wall and the otherinto the middle of the street.
"Be off with you!" said Sanselme.
"Oh! thank you, sir. But my mother, my poor mother!"
The woman had sunk upon the snow exhausted. The girl endeavored to lifther.
"Let me," said Sanselme. "Do you live far from here?"
This question, though so simple, seemed to agitate the girl. Sanselmenow held her mother in his arms.
"Well! Where am I to go?"
She answered slowly:
"Two steps from there. The Rue Travehefoin."
"I don't think I know the street."
"Very possibly," stammered the girl. "I will show you the way."
She had returned the laces to the box, and then with a determined stepled the way. A few feet from the Quai, where this scene had taken place,there was at this time a network of narrow, dark and wretched streets.It was in fact regarded as the worst part of the town. Sanselme did notcare for this. He was happy that he had done some good at last. The girlturned into a lane that was very dark, in spite of the street lampburning at the further end. The girl finally stopped before a tallhouse, from which came shouts of laughter and singing. The door was notclose shut and the girl pushed it open. A stout woman stood just within.
"Upon my word!" she cried. "Did Zelda need two hours to--"
"My mother is dying," said the child, as she held the door wide open.
Sanselme appeared, carrying the inanimate form.
"Drunk again!" cried the stout woman.
"This woman is ill," answered Sanselme, roughly, who now understood thekind of a place he was in. "Get out of my way!" he added.
"Ill! Oh! what stuff. Come on, though. I will see to this to-morrow!"
And she took down a lantern from the wall and led the way up thecreaking stairs. Two or three men came out of the lower room at the samemoment.
"I
s that Zelda?" they shouted. "Send her here to sing for us."
But the stout woman opened a door and Sanselme laid his burden on thebed. It was a sordid room in which he found himself. On the dirty wallshung some colored prints of doubtful propriety. On one was a dark stain,as if a glass of wine had been thrown upon it.
"Let me take off the quilt," said the woman, extending her hand toremove the ragged covering on the bed.
Sanselme, filled with disgust at her cupidity, answered:
"Let everything alone. I will pay whatever is necessary."
"Very good, sir; if you answer for it, that's all right."
"And now I want a physician," he added.
"A physician! Oh, that is nonsense. You must not be taken in in thisway. She goes out every evening for her daughter, who is apprenticed toa milliner, and this time she took a drop too much, that is all!"
A bitter sob was heard from the girl, who sat with her hands coveringher face.
Sanselme pitied the poor child. He took a twenty franc piece from hispocket.
"I want a doctor," he said, "and pray make haste."
"Very good, sir, since I see you are willing to pay him, and that itwon't be left for me to do."
Sanselme was left alone with these two women. He was greatly annoyedthat accident had brought him to such a house, and was half tempted tofly. He had done his duty and had defended the two women from theirassailants. What more had he to do here?
The merest trifle would compromise his position, for Lyons, though alarge city, is but a village; every trifle becomes known, and iscommented upon and exaggerated.
He stood twisting his hat in his hands. Presently, with an air ofdecision, he tossed it on a chair.
"It won't do to be cowardly!" he said, half aloud.
This man, who had been so vicious, was now eager to do good. He must seethe physician. But could he do nothing while awaiting his arrival?Whatever were the errors of this poor creature, she was a woman, andsuffering. He did not know what she required. He turned to the girl.
"Mademoiselle!" he said, making his voice as gentle and paternal aspossible.
She looked up, and for the first time he saw her. She was absolutelyadorable, with her glossy, dark hair carried back plainly from her fairbrow. How old was she? Sixteen, perhaps, but so slender that she lookedyounger.
"You must unfasten your mother's dress," said Sanselme, "that she mayhave air."
The girl looked at him as if she did not understand him. Oh! what shameand humiliation were in that young heart!
Sanselme understood, for he said:
"She is your mother, I believe?"
She rose quickly and went to the bed, and leaning over the woman, kissedher brow. This was her answer to Sanselme's question. She then loosenedthe sick woman's garments. Feeling her child's hands, and able tobreathe better, the woman said:
"Do not touch me; I am in agony!"
That was the beginning of delirium.
"I am cold!" she cried. "Why do you put ice on my feet?" and she startedup so suddenly that her daughter could not hold her.
"Help me, sir," the girl cried to Sanselme.
He ran to her assistance. He was astonished to see that the woman wasnot more than thirty-five, but her eyes were haggard, and she bore themarks of precocious old age.
She uttered a shriek so wild and despairing that it curdled the blood inSanselme's veins, and as he looked her full in the face, he trembledfrom head to foot.
The doors opened; it was the physician, who looked utterly disgustedthat he should have been called to such a place. He entered noisily,without removing his hat, and as he caught sight of the sick woman,looking like an inspired Pythoness, he said roughly:
"Come, now, lie down."
She looked at him with evident terror, and then, docile as a child, shelay down on the bed.
The physician made a rapid examination.
"There is nothing to be done," he said; "this woman is at the end of herrope."
"For Heaven's sake, sir, be quiet!" whispered Sanselme, angrily. "Thewoman hears you, and you will kill her!"
The Doctor took off his spectacles and closed them with a snap; thenlooking at Sanselme from head to foot, he said:
"You are much interested in Madame. A relative, I presume?"
"That is none of your affairs, sir. I beg you to confine yourself towriting your prescriptions, and I will see that you are paid."
The physician was impressed by the tone in which these words wereuttered. He wrote the prescription and went away. Then Sanselme said hewould go for the medicine. He was absolutely livid and could hardlystand. He returned in twenty minutes, and met the mistress of the houseon the street, where she was waiting.
"Look here!" she said; "I don't like all this in my house, and I amgoing to bundle Zelda off to the Hospital. I don't want her to diehere."
Sanselme hardly heard her.
"Tell me," he said, hastily, "what this woman's name is."
"That is easy enough; I have her papers. It is something like Zeld, andwe have got to calling her Zelda--it is more taking, you know."
"Yes, I see; but do you know anything of her past?"
"Not much."
"She has a daughter?"
"Yes, which is not at all pleasant for us. Of course, the child can'tlive here; she stays across the street. Zelda goes every night to theshop for her. It is nonsense, of course, for she will go the same way asher mother in the end."
"Will you show me the papers?" asked Sanselme, "and I will do all I canfor this woman."
"Help me to get rid of her! That is all I ask."
"Rely on me."
Sanselme presently had the papers in his hands. The sick woman's namewas Jane Zeld. She came from a little village in Switzerland, nearZurich. There was also a paper dated many years since, signed by herfather, authorizing her to reside in the Commune of Selzheim, in Alsace.Sanselme turned sick and dizzy; he caught at the wall for support.
"What on earth is the matter?" asked the old woman.
He stammered a few incoherent words. Then in a measure recoveringhimself, he said:
"I give you my word that I will take her away in the morning."
"But if she should die in the night! However, I am too kind-hearted formy own good. She may stay here to night. But who will take care of her?"
"I will," answered Sanselme; "but I must beg that you will take herdaughter out of the room."
"I can give her a bed in the closet next her mother's room. But you knowif it were known, I should get into trouble, because she's a minor."
They returned to the sick room. Zelda seemed calmer. The daughter wascrouched upon the floor at the side of the bed. Sanselme spoke to hergently.
"My child," he said, "I will take care of your mother to-night. You aretired, and a room is ready for you."
"No! no!" cried the child. "I cannot stay here to-night, unless I am inmy mother's room."
And she looked so horrified that Sanselme was silent. He realized whatthis young creature must feel at the terrible life led by her mother.When the girl understood that the room she was to have could be reachedonly through that occupied by her mother, she said no more, but sheseemed to shrink from the very air she breathed.
The unhappy Zelda had fallen into a state of prostration, that renderedher unconscious of all that was going on about her. Her daughter went toher side.
"Do not disturb her," said Sanselme, "she is asleep."
For the first time the girl looked him full in the face. "You are verykind," she said. "You knew my mother then?"
"Oh! no," answered Sanselme, eagerly, "but you are very tired, and someone must stay with her to-night."
He spoke with a certain hesitation, as if he were telling a falsehood.The girl was too innocent to notice this manner.
"If my mother wakes you will call me. Poor mamma! she is so kind."
"I will call you, I give you my word," Sanselme answered.
And the girl left the room, and in s
ome ten minutes Sanselme heard herregular breathing; tired Nature asserted herself.
Then he turned to the bed. From the rooms below came shrill laughter andthe rattle of glasses. They cared little down there whether this poorcreature lived or died. She was dying, of this Sanselme felt sure. Hebegan to walk up and down the room, occasionally stopping at the side ofthe bed, as if seeking to discover in this pale, drawn face someforgotten image.
It was very cold, and the light was dim; by degrees the house becamequiet. He sat in the one chair in the room buried in thought. Suddenlythe sick woman began to toss on her bed. He went to her, and said,gently, "Are you in pain?"
"No."
"Then try to sleep."
"Sleep!" repeated the poor creature, and then, without any apparentreason, she said to herself, over and over again, "Accursed! Accursed!"
Then she began to whisper. She raised herself in her bed, and wasterrible to look upon. "I was a good girl," she said, "more than that, Iwas an innocent one. I used to go to confession. I was told to do so."
Sanselme listened with beads of sweat on his brow. He determined todrink the cup to the dregs. "Yes," he said, "go on. It was at Selzheim."
"Selzheim! yes. Oh! how sweet it was there. There was a mountain, and alovely brook where I bathed my feet when I was a little thing."
"And a Square and a fountain," whispered Sanselme.
"Yes, how gay it was there, when we all played together. And then hecame, all in black. We thought him so kind and good. He was the cure,you know."
Sanselme started back.
"And when he said to me, 'Jane, why do you not come to confession?' Itold him the truth, and said it was because I had nothing to confess."
"Go on! go on!" said Sanselme.
Further doubt was impossible, he was himself the infamous priest. Hefell on his knees, and sobbed and wept.
The dying woman continued: "I went to confession as the cure bade me,and--"
But we will not dwell on this terrible story as told by these dyinglips. The priest abused his trust. His superiors knew the truth, butwith that _esprit de corps_, which is in fact complicity, simply removedhim and avoided all open scandal. His victim remained in the village.And because of his crime, she was condemned and despised. She was drivenaway, and gave birth to her child. And then, to live and to give breadto this child, she had become what she was.
Sanselme took the hand of the dying woman.
"And the child?" he asked. "Where is she?"
The woman looked at him with her big dark eyes. For the first time sheseemed conscious of his presence. And suddenly, in spite of the lapse ofyears, she recognized him. She shrank away with a frenzied shrink.
"Yes, it is I! pardon me!" and Sanselme sank on his knees; "and tell me,I implore you, where the child is?"
She did not speak, she could not. She stretched out her hand, andpointed to the room where her daughter was.
"And she is my child?" cried Sanselme.
"Yes," answered the dying woman. And as if this simple word had snappedthe mainspring of life, she fell dead on the floor.
He lifted her and laid her on the bed, and then the wretched man,crushed under the weight of his shame, dared to pray.
When morning broke he knocked on the door of the next room. The girlawoke with a start and ran out.
"Your mother is dead," he said, gently.
The next day Sanselme laid the poor woman in her grave. Then he said tothe girl:
"I knew your mother. Before she died she made me promise never to desertyou. Will you come to me?"
Jane Zeld was utterly crushed. She had no will of her own. Where elsecould she have gone? She felt herself surrounded by a circle of crime.As long as her mother lived, the affection she received from her madeher forget sometimes the sinister truth. But when she was alone in theworld, she felt absolutely crushed by this ignominy. Pure as she was itseemed to herself that her mind was smirched.
Sanselme had come to a grave decision. He left Lyons and took Jane withhim, she having no idea of the reason of his devotion. He called himselfher intendant, and was anxious to perform the most menial offices, andin these felt as if he were in a measure making amends for the past. Hehad one aspiration, that of paternal martyrdom. Gently and with paternalaffection Sanselme soothed the girl's shame and despair. He hadpreserved much of the persuasiveness of a priest, his language stirredand softened at one and the same time. But now every word that heuttered was sincere.
Jane remained excessively sad.
Sanselme had saved several thousand francs. What should he do with Jane?He had left Lyons, hoping that a change of scene would go far towardrestoring cheerfulness to Jane. Vain hope. She never forgot her mother,nor that mother's life. She learned with marvelous rapidity. Study washer best distraction. From this Sanselme hoped much. He taught herhimself all that he had formerly learned, and wondered at the progressshe made.
The merest accident revealed to him Jane's amazing talent for music. IfArt should take hold of her and absorb her entirely, she would forgetand enter a new life.
She studied music thoroughly, and Sanselme took care, living as theywere, in Germany at that time, that she should constantly hear goodmusic.
Her memory was prodigious, her voice exceptionally true, her tasteperfect. Sanselme felt that here was safety for him.
At the end of a few years Jane, now become a great artist, went with herbenefactor to Paris.
Their position toward each other was in no degree modified. He was veryrespectful in his manner, and always kept a certain distance betweenthem. He did not wish her to know anything more about herself than thatshe was the daughter of the wretched Zelda.
By degrees the recollection of Lyons seemed to fall from the mind ofJane. Never was there the most distant allusion ever made to her mother,and the girl never spoke of her.
This silence astonished Sanselme, and troubled him as well. He hadstudied Jane so closely that he thoroughly understood her character, hergoodness, unselfishness and passionate gratitude. He knew that she hadnot forgotten her mother, and would never do so, and that the reason shenever mentioned her was because her pain and shame were quite as acuteas ever. Jane's character was a singular mixture of audacity andtimidity. It was her own proposition that she should offer her servicesat the concert, and when Sanselme proposed that she should go toSabrau's, the artist, she had not hesitated in doing so.
She sought to distract her mind, for she was haunted by a spectre. Shehad a ghastly fear that she might be tempted to lead the life her motherhad led.
The theatre, so often calumniated, would be her safeguard, and in herpride as a great artist she would forget the past. It was hersalvation, her glory, and the path to fortune. She would be respected,honored and happy. These were the dreams in which Sanselme indulged.Perhaps, too, some honest man would give her his name, and that of JaneZeld would be merged in a happy matron.
It was with great joy that he took Jane to the reception at theartist's, and here basked in the admiration and respect she received. Ifshe would but consent to go on the stage her fortune was secured--buthitherto she had refused even to listen to this plan.
That evening Sanselme had been shocked to meet Benedetto. The spectre ofhis past again arose before him, but he thought it impossible thatBenedetto should recognize him. He had been guilty of one imprudence.When he heard the name of the Vicomte of Monte-Cristo, he remembered therage of Benedetto at Toulon, and how he had sworn to be avenged on him.
A secret instinct warned Sanselme that Benedetto would wreak hisvengeance on the son of his enemy, and concealed behind the curtain hehad given Esperance the warning that had so startled him. Then hehurried away, aghast at what he had done. What was the young Vicomte tohim? What did he care for Benedetto's hates?
When the fire caught Jane's robe, he had been a witness of the energeticpromptness shown by the young man, and then he said to himself that hewas glad he gave the warning. And when they returned home that night,Sanselme had never been
in better spirits; it seemed to him that agreat Future was unfolding before him. To his surprise he found Janeweeping. For the first time she had spoken angrily, but Sanselme wouldhave forgiven her if she had struck him.
He saw that memory still haunted her, that there was no peace or restfor her. He wanted her to travel, but the money, where was he to getmoney? And it was while tortured by these thoughts that Benedettoappeared to him.
And this was not all. Benedetto knew his secret, and now, as if all thiswere not enough, Jane herself had vanished. It was more than humanenergy could support.
While Sanselme stood on the bridge absorbed in these wretched thoughts,he heard a quick, running step. His well-trained ear could not bedeceived. It was a woman's step--if it were she? He started forward. Itwas dark, and he could see nothing, and the steps were dying away. Heran on toward the _Pont de Jena_, and presently he heard the stepsagain, and before him on the bridge was a dark shadow. Was it Jane?
He called, "Jane, my child!"
Then he saw the shadow spring to the parapet, and something black passedbetween him and the sky--the splash of water, and all was still.
"Too late!" cried Sanselme, "but I will save her." And he in his turnleaped into the water. He was a vigorous swimmer, as will be rememberedby our readers.
When he rose to the surface after his plunge, he looked around, and atsome distance beheld a dark spot. He swam toward it and seized thewoman's arm. She was just sinking. And now this man was so overwhelmedwith emotion, that the blood rushed to his brain and his limbs werealmost paralyzed. Fortunately the shore was not far away, but the womanclung convulsively to him.
He called for aid, but all was silent and dark. He knew that he wassinking, and that the end was near. Suddenly a voice shouted:
"Courage! we are coming." And two men appeared swimming vigorously.
"I have one, Bobichel!"
"And I have another, Monsieur Fanfar."
With their burthens our old friends reached the shore.
"God grant that it is not too late!" said Fanfar, kneeling by the sideof the two inanimate forms. "What had we best do?"
"Take them up on our shoulders, sir, and carry them along. Fortunately,the house is not far off."
And Bobichel threw Sanselme over his shoulder as easily as if he hadbeen a bag of meal, while Fanfar took the woman. They stopped at a smallhouse not far from the Quai; every blind was closed; Fanfar uttered apeculiar cry.
"Is that you?" asked a woman's voice.
"Myself," answered Fanfar.
The door opened, and presently the two bodies were laid on the floor.
Fanfar took a lamp and looked at them.
"I saw this man at the door where we stood to-night," said Bobichel.
"Yes, I saw him, too," answered Fanfar. "But who can this woman be?"
She was an old woman, with white hair.
"We must all go to work. Madame Fanfar, we want your help; hot linen andflannels, if you please!"
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